


A Study of Progression & Regression

by AnnaBolena



Series: A Series of Progressions [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Clumsy flirting is A THING, Get down with all that longing, Greek stuff included free of charge, M/M, Pining Enjolras, Sometimes R is oblivious too, Time for the Enjoltaire development companion to part 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-06-28 09:46:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15704745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: "To the best of my knowledge," Combeferre clears his throat, mercifully throwing himself onto the sword to save Grantaire from staring like an idiot all night, "Hymenaeus was Apollo’s son, Enjolras. I think you’re sending mixed messages to the poor bartender."a.k.a. How Grantaire learned Enjolras has a mouth on him.





	A Study of Progression & Regression

**Author's Note:**

> 18k words of pure Enjoltaire, pls Enjoy. For those of you curious: Red is not the New Black Part II is also in the works and will eventually be up. But first, this. 
> 
> If you haven't read part I to this, you might want to. It's mostly Courferre but offers lots of insight into Enjolras' mind before he met Grantaire. 
> 
> Anyway, Enjoy.

He meets Enjolras when a vision in blond and red comes storming into the Corinth during a late Friday shift, focusing on Combeferre with singular precision, zeroing in on him despite the throng of other patrons. Fridays are busy, though few people favor the actual bar as most guests come in groups and therefore occupy various booths or tables. Hey, Grantaire does not mind, it means most of the effort goes to those assigned to work the room, and he’s found that bar-sitters tip better – namely, Combeferre tips better.  

His first instinct upon realizing that it is no coincidence that the blond vision is looking at them – although Grantaire wouldn’t blame him for going after that, Combeferre is fucking _built_ and if he didn’t have his weird thing with Courfeyrac Grantaire would be offering to climb him like a tree in a strictly platonic, mutual pleasure-seeking kind of way– is to be mad at Combeferre because they’ve known each other for almost a year now and _how on earth has he never been introduced to this boy?_

(He’s met Courfeyrac, once or twice or ten times, and decided two seconds after introductions that Courfeyrac is a wholesome blend of actual angel and devious scheming bastard. Three seconds afterwards Grantaire realized that Combeferre and Courfeyrac are deeply in love with one another. He was polite enough not to point it out, as Courfeyrac immediately began approaching a table of girls. Combeferre watched him go and Grantaire only felt bad for him until he realized that Combeferre was smiling, as if seeing the love of his life flirting indiscriminately with whoever took his fancy didn’t pain him at all. That’s when Grantaire decided that it really wasn’t his business & promptly went back to talking about where he thinks Fanon went wrong in Wretched of The Earth. " _He places too much stake in The Nation as common ground – all of those lines were drawn on maps by Europeans. What meaning could they find in those arbitrary borders? His work is way too open for dangerous misinterpretation-_ " Combeferre had looked at him while letting his monologue run its course and looked amazed. " _My god, you really should meet Enjolras_." Combeferre always smiles when he mentions his two closest friends.)

So, this is Enjolras. The legendary, unapologetically morally upright Enjolras he has heard a lot about. And yet, surprisingly, Enjolras being the paragon of beauty, the very dictionary definition of pulchritude never once came up. Combeferre introduces him after Grantaire can’t resist a snide comment about how worked up this blond angel is regarding discriminatory policies at their University. Grantaire does not miss his Uni days, thank you very much.

( _"Can’t miss something you have barely any memories of, my friend_ ," Bahorel would laugh if he said as much in the giant’s presence. Nowadays it is easier to joke about what used to be harsh reality. He rarely needs his support system anymore – an astounding feat for a bartender, but he is only too acutely aware that for a long time it didn’t look like he’d ever get out of that mess. Like Sisyphus he would push and push and too often it didn’t feel worth it. Too often he got caught up in the inertia of the rock, pulling him back under. These days, though he works for the Corinth, he can no longer be likened to its tragic king of old. Not in this regard, at least. That isn’t to say he feels no more longing for the sweet oblivion liquid courage may bring, only that the mental fortitude he has built is enough to resist that particular temptation most nights. And during the nights he isn't strong enough, Bahorel foregoes the jokes and instead takes care of him. If Bahorel can't, Jehan or Feuilly are on that to the best of their respective abilities. Mostly he gets by. He lives.)

Enjolras turns the full heat of an outraged glare on him, and out of the corner of his eye Grantaire catches a grateful look from Combeferre, who really has a ridiculous amount of work to do for med school today. Ah, the noble sacrifices he makes for his friends. He feels marked by Enjolras; every look from those eyes tears into his soul and leaves him defenseless. Grantaire fights back by throwing up walls, building them and watching them get torn down in real time.

By the end of his shift, Enjolras has taken to silently fuming at him from across the bar, the only remaining shield, and Grantaire already knows he is helpless when it comes to him.

+

Enjolras becomes a regular along with Combeferre, and if Combeferre regrets having to bury the apolitical base of their friendship in which they just talk about anything else that interests him on Friday nights he does not say it.

 (" _For Christ’s sake, Enj is the closest friend I’ve got and I love him dearly, but even that isn’t enough to sometimes make me want to strangle him when he gets too militant about his goals._ " To which Grantaire will grin and say: " _I thought the honor of closest friend went to Courfeyrac_." After which Combeferre will raise a single, scary eyebrow and calmly say: " _You know well Courfeyrac is not_ just _my friend_." Which is-, truly, Grantaire has to applaud Combeferre for that astounding level of self-awareness, but then again he doesn’t seem inclined to do anything about it, even if Grantaire is fairly certain Courfeyrac would happily be bound to Combeferre, so-)

They still fence twice a week - that goes a long way.

"I’m not a fan of locker room talk, usually," Combeferre jokes when they end up sitting next to each other in one - and that is as far as his sociopolitical commentary will go while at the Gym - talking about whether or not reading books in their original language makes for a better reading experience. Combeferre, an avid anglophile in literary aspects, argues yes. Grantaire, though he speaks more languages than Combeferre, who admirably speaks French, English, Bengali and reads Sanskrit too, argues that a good translation will get you exactly the same result. "Besides," he says, "Not everybody has the privilege of fluently speaking more than one language. Wouldn’t it be counterintuitive to say one should restrict themselves only to literature that was written by one’s own countrymen? You would have to learn both Greek and Latin to read all of your beloved classics."

He likes the fact that Combeferre doesn’t interrupt his monologues, no matter how far he takes them. His mind simply collects and collects information, he listens until Grantaire has talked himself into an end. Then he takes a few beats to structure what he wants to respond, and veers off into his own outlandishly long opinion. It is the most civil debate set-up Grantaire has ever had in his life. It is also an adjustment to hold back on being purposefully contrary and just consider what he really thinks. Combeferre gives him room to be himself but he will shut him down when he catches onto Grantaire being negative just for the sake of it.

(Those are some of his scariest moments. Combeferre has the uncanny ability to level you with a single look over the rim of his metal-framed glasses. He will speak one word, two at the most, and your entire ten minute rant will have been for naught. Grantaire is in awe. If Enjolras is the dictionary entry for pulchritude – although after the first few minutes of meeting him Grantaire had to concede that to reduce the whole overwhelming package of _The Enjolras_ to just his supernaturally good looks is to do the man a disservice – Combeferre is the dictionary entry for succinct.)

On the other hand, Enjolras has a very powerful style of rhetoric all of his own, and he isn’t exactly frugal with the amount of words he uses. Grantaire thinks he is dreaming when Enjolras strolls in at precisely Nine PM and Thirteen Minutes, one week after their first encounter. Slight amendment – Enjolras never strolls, he strides. Strolling implies a lack of definite direction, and Enjolras is always striving for something, be that the removal of all socio-economic barriers in a post-capitalistic utopia or managing his way across a busy bar.

He also isn’t prepared to become the singular focus of Enjolras’ consistently angry eyes. Truly, how could anyone prepare for that? After a more relaxed nod towards Combeferre and a deep exhale, he begins. Combeferre smiles into his drink, biting the inside of his cheek as he studies a page on _polycystic ovaries_ with feigned interest. Grantaire knows for a fact he finished that page ten minutes ago, the traitor.

"I’ve come back." Enjolras states this, obviously expecting a specific reaction. Grantaire, raking his eyes over the harried looking and somehow still fuming blond, nods.

"So you have. What can I get you?"

"Your name," Enjolras’ words stop him from turning around fully to towel dry the contents of the beeping dishwasher. _Oh treacherous heart of mine_ , he thinks, _read nothing into this_. Combeferre is biting his fist as he stares pointedly at the pages without reading a single word. _Help me_ , Grantaire wants to shout, but those intelligent brown eyes are pointedly averted. He is alone.

"You said if I came back I would get your name," Enjolras frowns at Grantaire’s continued silence.

Grantaire’s throat is too dry to respond. "Surely you didn’t come back just to find out what you ought to call me when you rant about how wrong you think I am?"

"I need _something_ to call you," Enjolras insists, hands clenched at his sides and full of tension. Deflect, deflect. Grantaire was just about ready to let him in on that particular secret, when he realized that if he gave everything away now Enjolras, the wonderfully passionate stature currently staring him down, would have no reason to talk to him again. It is too easy to slip back into a fucked up system of prolonging the simultaneous torture and gratification that comes from holding Enjolras’ attention.

So, instead, he says: "Oh, honey, you can call me whatever you like." He winks for good measure and tosses Combeferre a napkin when he coughs. (Serves him right for timing his sips so carelessly, Grantaire thinks, lacking any trace of empathy for the man after his treacherous behavior of the last five minutes. He can see how he will get the remaining drops of alcohol out of his trachea all by himself.)

Enjolras obviously does not enjoy being trifled with. He slides into the seat next to Combeferre, addressing him now. "What are you drinking?"

"I think he called it ‘Luscious Lips of Red’, didn’t we decide on that?" Combeferre muses, nodding towards Grantaire.

"Only because you thought ‘Dramatically Bleeding Stomach Ulcer’ wouldn’t get me as many tips," Grantaire sighs. He leaves those two to their own devices as he makes rounds along the rest of the bar, pouring drinks and pointedly not looking at Enjolras. When he returns, Enjolras is frowning at him.

Still, he orders a tall glass of water ("Fitting," Grantaire mumbles under his breath to Enjolras’ increased consternation) and jumps right into his true purpose for showing up again, seeking more political arguments. Combeferre must have let something drop about Grantaire’s opinions on Fanon because Grantaire gets to enjoy hearing Enjolras rant about how wrong he is when he critiques that work. "Consider the time in which it was written and adapt to that. Context matters so much and the general idea behind it-"

And this is easier, when Enjolras debates he isn’t as easy to misinterpret as potentially interested. Arguing with him reminds Grantaire of his place, in a way, and that is good. He can work with that. At the same time, he can’t just let everything Enjolras says slide, and so he argues right back.

+

The next week Enjolras shows up with source material, at Nine PM and Thirteen Minutes on the dot, to prove a point Grantaire wasn’t buying last week. He shoves the papers across the bar to make Combeferre and Grantaire aware of his arrival, once more nodding at Combeferre almost gently, and then focusing the full force of his baby blues on Grantaire. "I still don’t know your name."

This time Combeferre at least makes an attempt at being helpful. Grantaire decides not to feel too embarrassed that his apparent helplessness is so obviously telegraphed that even Combeferre has pity. Usually he reserves that for Courfeyrac, the most frequent beneficiary of a mostly-untapped well of compassion. No, usually Combeferre prefers to call people out on their bullshit gently, and leave them learning how to swim in the stormy waters they’ve gotten themselves into after he points them in the right direction. And yet, tonight: "I’m still trying to guess it myself. Right now I’m torn between ‘Ferdinand’ and ‘Frederick-Augustus’."

Grantaire laughs and shakes his head. Combeferre sighs and throws his hands up. "This demands a more scientific approach. I’ve exhausted what little intuition I have for these things."

"Don’t sweat it, Apollo," Grantaire teases, still riding the high of his joke with Combeferre and therefore boisterous, "As mentioned before I place little stake in what you would call me. I am fully malleable to your preferences."

He keeps his name from him to keep up a wall. It is ridiculous, he knows. In the end, Grantaire fears his words give Enjolras too much power anyway, whatever he does. Words are this man’s specialty, after all.

"In that case, would you prefer Hyacinth or Hymenaeus?"

If those words were said in anything but a flatly disinterested and slightly infuriated tone, Grantaire is sure he would have died. Even so, the sheer suggestiveness of it makes him sweat. He stares at Enjolras as he wipes a hand across his now damp forehead, black curls beginning to stick to the skin unflatteringly.

"To the best of my knowledge," Combeferre clears his throat, mercifully throwing himself onto the sword to save Grantaire from staring like an idiot all night, "Hymenaeus was Apollo’s son, Enjolras. I think you’re sending mixed messages to the poor bartender."

Enjolras goes perfectly still, hands tightening around the edge of the bar, carefully manicured fingernails digging into the wood. Grantaire turns away because, whelp, there’s an image he doesn’t need.

"There’s-" Enjolras finally says, quietly to Combeferre, "There are different interpretations and translations, you absolute asshole."

"Also, please consider the fact that he is at work, Enj." Combeferre reminds him. "You have strong opinions about patrons taking advantage of those-"

"I wasn’t flirting," Enjolras hisses, loud enough to convey proper outrage. Of course he wasn’t. It doesn’t feel good to know Enjolras seems disgusted by the very idea of coming onto him, but at the same time it offers Grantaire the safety of certainty.

Grantaire pretends to be diligently drying glasses, only returning to them to take Enjolras’ order. He finds his laugh again after a few minutes of exposure to this man. A sort of immunity he must rebuild every single time Enjolras swings by. He learns to breathe again. And if the drink he experiments with has beads of purple and red liquid artfully swirling in the carrier spirit, it is entirely up to Enjolras if he can interpret a certain floral likeness as an answer to a question Grantaire is not brave enough to answer directly. Why would he, it wasn’t even meant to be answered. Enjolras does stare at the drink intensively for a few minutes, before taking a sip as he looks Grantaire right in the eye again. Oh, heaven have mercy on him, he is so, _so_ fucked.

+

Enjolras shows up at Nine PM and Thirteen Minutes, but this time on a Tuesday. Combeferre doesn’t join Grantaire at the bar on Tuesdays. Tuesday is his special Courfeyrac day, because on Tuesdays Courfeyrac most often gets the saddest, if a weekend was especially wild his reactive retreat is often delayed by one day. Somehow he gets through Monday, and then on Tuesday his spirit sometimes completely tanks. Tuesday nights with him are regularly scheduled as a pre-emptive measure, so that Combeferre is never accidentally too busy to be there for him if he needs it. Point being, Combeferre isn’t here, so why is Enjolras brightening up the bar with his stunning presence?

More importantly, why is Enjolras focusing him with those deadly eyes? Shit, why is Enjolras coming over here?

"Tell me your name," Enjolras tries, and Grantaire has really got to hand it to C-squared that they haven’t just rolled their eyes and divulged it. Those two could probably withstand government torture. It’s silly that he can’t just make himself say the word, isn’t it? Absolutely ridiculous.

"Combeferre doesn’t come by on Tuesdays," Grantaire says instead, deflecting. Always deflecting. Enjolras furrows his brows.

"I know. He was watching Cat Videos on the internet next to a blanket burrito that presumably contained Courfeyrac when I left."

Grantaire swallows. Enjolras didn’t just forget what day it was, then. Of course not. His solitary presence at the bar is deliberate. What does one do with such information? "Why are you here?"

Stupid, he thinks, stupid. Why does he say these things? Enjolras considers him, arches one eyebrow and then unwinds his long black scarf and takes off his matching black hat. He shakes a golden mane free from the confines of his scarlet coat and then takes a seat at the bar. Grantaire stares.

"I am trying to see how long you will keep this up."

"What is to stop me from keeping it going forever, if it means I am graced with your divine presence so often?" Grantaire dares, against the backdrop of his beating heart telling him this isn’t a good idea. This will burn him, he thinks. Sure enough, Enjolras’ next words prove him right.

"I don’t like playing games. I might get tired of waiting," he says, in that same disaffected tone. Grantaire thinks he knows that the lack of nuance in his cadence when he speaks like this is a result of trying to control a vicious temper. Enjolras is big on control.

"Fear not, dearest Apollo," Grantaire manages, somehow, despite complete sobriety breathing down his neck and expanding his insecurities until they fit into every corner of his body, pushing at his skin, stopping just short of clawing their way out by force. " _So long as this man can breathe and his eyes can see, so long lives this and gives life to thee._ I shall take as much of your presence as you will give."

Furrowed brows follow his pathetically poetic outburst. A few seconds pass. "Shakespeare?" Enjolras asks.

"In bastardized form, but well-spotted," Grantaire agrees. "Are you going to order?"

+

It takes three months of back and forth and outright vicious arguments until Enjolras has apparently grown sick of it.

He stares at Grantaire as a young woman flirts with him to try and get a drink on the house. And sure, Grantaire enjoys the attention but the woman does not seem to get how this works. Ah, perks of a life in the service industry. 

"Tell me your name," Enjolras whispers, a bit sadly, too quiet for his usual demeanor.

"Have I done it, then? Finally made you realize that it is a waste to try and get to know me? Shame," Grantaire sighs, "Yet inevitable, so it hurts but little. ‘ _Tis not so deep as a well_ _nor so wide as a church-door, but 'tis enough, 'twill serve_."

 A blatant lie.

"I can’t ask you what I want to ask you if you will not even give me this."

"Perhaps I am afraid of what you may ask?" Grantaire throws into the conversation. Enjolras’ face turns even more to stone.

"I see."

Grantaire really doubts he sees, actually, not to talk shit about what is undoubtedly twenty-twenty vision, because something about Enjolras not being perfect is a direct violation of divine law, but he doesn’t correct Enjolras. The time to challenge his Apollo has passed. He’d been waiting for it, so, honestly, it shouldn’t hurt.

Then again, when has his heart ever cared about what it _should_ be doing?

He doesn’t come back on his own anymore for a few weeks. He still comes by on Fridays to see Combeferre. Nine PM and Thirteen Minutes on the dot.

+

Grantaire has a night off and he is out with Jehan, going to see a movie that the little poet has been raving about for the better part of a year now. It ends up being shown at the most artsy-small-but-quaint-venue in the whole of Paris, where they share the room with just about twenty other patrons and end up having a group discussions about their feelings regarding said film which Grantaire pointedly keeps silent during, but both of them enjoy themselves, he thinks. Jehan certainly does, already animatedly talking about words begging to be composed and put to paper as the two of them stroll along the Seine.

It is on the way back home that he hears a booming voice call his name. He turns around, and sure enough he finds himself in the arms of Jean-Baptiste-Christophe, a veritable giant everyone agrees to just call Bahorel for the sake of not feeling ridiculous. His feet lift off the ground and Bahorel claps his hands on Grantaire’s back like he is actively trying to crush his spine. Knowing Bahorel, he might be. It’s been a while since they’ve met in the ring, Bahorel might be spoiling for a rematch after being put on his ass that _one time_.

Bahorel moves on to greeting Jehan with equal fervor but less casual pain, lifting them up and deeply inhaling whatever flower arrangement they currently have embedded in their long ginger braid. Jehan even gets a soft kiss on the forehead. Past Bahorel’s shoulder stands Enjolras, one hand holding tight to the messenger bag strap strung across his chest, the other firmly shut away in his vermillion coat pocket. Enjolras looks devastating in the cold night air, a small breeze sifting through the blond curls and a faint blush on his cheeks.

"Ah, Grantaire, this is Enjolras, my ex-roommate, the one I told you about."

"Grantaire," Enjolras pronounces, brows furrowed in thought. Christ, Grantaire has missed him. He is not prepared for the way his name sounds in that man’s mouth. Bahorel catches on to the fact that they know one another already, so he moves on to introducing Jehan, who tells Enjolras he is absolutely lovely and asks him if he would like his hair braided. Since Jehan is a little high right now they thoughtlessly reach out to touch one of the blond curls escaping Enjolras’ bun, when any other time they would definitely ask for permission beforehand. Enjolras goes very, very still and stares at Jehan in incomprehension. Grantaire notices.

(He gets home and considers for a long time that he has never once touched Enjolras, nor been touched by the man. In fact, he’s only ever seen Enjolras initiate touches, with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He keeps that in mind. It’s not like Enjolras would ever like to touch him, so in reality, it’s just an excuse to think more about a man he’ll never have.)

 

+

Enjolras starts showing up at Nine PM and Thirteen Minutes more frequently again. Grantaire could probably set his watch to him. He tells Enjolras as much at one point, watches Enjolras shrug and miss the joke as he retorts that it is the most convenient metro connection from the University library.

They fight so much.

"Why are you so fucking adamant in trying to convince me? Hasn’t anybody ever told you no before?"

"I need to convince you before I do anything else," Enjolras murmurs, then promptly refuses to elaborate. Grantaire rolls his eyes and moves on to other, more lucrative customers.

He asks Courfeyrac about it, in a moment of weakness. The little man’s eyes almost bulge out of his head so wide are they thrown open, the straw he’s been chewing on falls out of his mouth and into his lap with a little splash. "He said that? Verbatim?"

Grantaire nods. Courfeyrac makes eye contact with Combeferre across the bar. Combeferre comes over immediately and Grantaire feels a stab of envy at their connection. What must that be like? To have someone you can rely on so fully? To not only give and give devotedly but to know you shall receive in turn?

He wouldn’t know.

"Tell Combeferre what Enjolras said to you."

He does, a little weirded out when Combeferre raises his eyebrows and squeezes Courfeyrac’s hand, currently holding onto his perfectly crisp, ironed shirt frantically. " _Ferre_ ," Courfeyrac gasps excitedly, heavy with meaning Grantaire does not understand. "No need to praise the day before it ends, darling," Combeferre presses a kiss to Courfeyrac’s curls then gives them an affectionate tug, before he goes back to the booth he is sharing with some fellow med students tonight. Courfeyrac’s eyes are closed for a while longer, his face serene. His hand aborts its course halfway to his hair, where he’d be sure to find traces of Combeferre’s lingering lips.

Yeah, okay, Grantaire may not understand why those two don’t just make it official, but now he considers that they might not even need to. What is there between them is the most natural and obvious thing in the world.

Grantaire is not envious. No, Sir, not at all.

(Envy? I don’t know her, he lies to himself.)

+

Somehow, Enjolras tricks Grantaire into talking about his interests instead of politics, one night.

(It’s in a deviously posed question: "What do you believe in, then? Is there anything you enjoy besides trying to turn me to the side of the skeptics?" "As opposed to you trying to make me believe in your ideals, Apollo?" A whine that definitely wasn’t supposed to be one: "Gran _taire_.")

They end up on art, and Enjolras knows nothing about anything in that subject matter. It is odd, to see Enjolras’ mouth drop open when Grantaire finally finds the courage to talk about what he does for a living, what he enjoys doing when he isn’t frustrated immensely by his perceived lack of skill. Bahorel and Jehan both say that he shouldn’t be so hard on himself, because, admittedly, when he does get commissions his clients always end up very pleased and willing to pay, but what do those two, what does anyone, truly know of art? What does it matter if other people like Grantaire’s art, when he himself is constantly frustrated with what his hands are limited to creating?

Still, Enjolras listens, blue eyes attentive and when Grantaire promptly decides to put a stop to his undoubtedly annoying ramblings, he says: "Honestly, I’ve never thought about art before except as something pretty to look at."

What goes unsaid is the implication that Enjolras usually holds nothing but disdain for pretty things that serve no purpose. Frivolity is not one of Enjolras’ vices, in fact he disdains it.

"Apollo, you need to make time in your life to appreciate _some_ things for just being things, honestly. Art could just be pretty pictures and it would still be worth looking at. What you’re doing is very noble but it can’t be healthy to throw your whole life behind the causes you champion."

"I’m doing perfectly fine."

"Mhm," Grantaire snorts, "I’m sure you’re very well-adjusted. Tell me then, Enjolras, what interests you?"

Enjolras moves to speak, only to be cut off.

"What interests you if we say politics and social justice do not count? What do you partake in just for the sake of partaking?"

"I read," Enjolras answers, after a truly embarrassing amount of contemplation. Grantaire wonders if Enjolras does not realize how tightly wound up he is at all times or if he perhaps likes it that way. Some people need eternal tension to achieve what they do. 

"Political essays, yes, I am aware and inclined to dismiss that as an interest which doesn’t meet the criteria I set."

"I read other stuff too. Classic literature, you know that, I’ve said as much. We’ve had conversations about that. Long conversations. I like gothic novels too. Sometimes I read horror fiction. Once Combeferre leant me Harry Potter. That was nice."

Grantaire is, frankly, floored.

"Would you like to learn about art?" He blurts out unthinkingly, and then flinches when he sees Enjolras’ shocked face. Brows furrow, deliberation commences. He turns around and serves other customers. Enjolras does not talk in such moments of surprise. He shuts himself away until he has come up with an answer. Grantaire wonders if this ever happens when he is talking to crowds. He knows Enjolras is on the debate team at University, knows so because Enjolras sometimes uses Grantaire to improve his arguments when he sits at the bar to keep him company late into the night, and freezing in the middle of arguments to deliberate shouldn’t make him a serious contender in such tournaments. Combeferre, however, insists he is without parallel on a podium. Courfeyrac, usually while nuzzling Combeferre’s neck and having one or both hands clutching at some part of Combeferre, chooses to underscore his point non-verbally by way of nodding profusely. Said nodding often looks more like he is trying to scent mark Combeferre by way of rubbing his own smell onto any part he can get to.

Grantaire does not question it. Those two are responsible for their own shit show. He’s got enough on his plate anyway. No need to meddle. (Also, he is thankful that those two have never brought up his frankly ridiculous crush-but-more-intense on Enjolras, so he’s really just being polite in return. No one likes being confronted about feelings they can’t help.)

"I want to see your art," Enjolras nods, when Grantaire returns to fill up his glass. (‘Just a coke’, he’d ordered earlier, and Grantaire had shaken his head and told him: ‘If you’re going to do that, at least order a Virgin Cuba Libre’. Enjolras had frowned at him and made a comment until Grantaire had assured him that wasn’t supposed to be a dig or anything, but rather that he was trying to be funny. ‘Oh’, Enjolras had said, tension draining from his face into what he assumes was Enjolras attempt at smiling through the pain of not finding a joke funny. At all. A while later, Enjolras had asked him for the ingredients of a regular Cuba Libre, and then when he’d found out he’d _actually_ smiled and murmured ‘Ah, I see.’)  

Grantaire flinches.

"Oh, no, you really don’t want to see any of the shit I made. But I’ll take you to the Louvre, for a start, if you like."

Enjolras considers this.

"Okay."

+

It is an awkward disaster, to say the least. Grantaire talks and talks and talks, while Enjolras stares alternatingly at him, the paintings or his feet – saying nothing, consistently frowning the entire time. Grantaire grows nervous and when he is nervous he just talks more. A vicious cycle, he knows, but also a tempting one. Enjolras isn’t having a good time, he can tell as much.

Whenever Grantaire moves onto a new piece, no matter what he says, no matter how interesting he tries to make it, Enjolras’ scowl only deepens.

Eventually, Grantaire shuts his eyes tightly and stops. Otherwise he’ll keep going until Enjolras actually tells him to shut up, and he isn’t sure he could take that with the appropriate amount of dignity. Not that he has a lot of dignity to begin with, when it comes to Enjolras.

"Grantaire?" Enjolras prompts, after a few minutes of mutual silence. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes tightly. This is the worst possible time for Enjolras to suddenly sound concerned.

"-Did you forget what you were going to say? You were talking about the Andromache-Hector dynamic, if that helps."

They’re looking at a Jacques-Louis David painting, and Grantaire was just about talking circles around Enjolras, going off-tangent into half a rant about the Iliad and the injustice done to Hector’s character when he’d realized that Enjolras was entirely too red in the face to be enjoying himself.

"Doesn’t matter, we can just stop right here."

"We have half of your museum plan left to go," Enjolras and his toneless voice tell him.

"You don’t have to pretend to still be interested, it’s clear this is doing nothing for you."

"You know that for certain? When did I say anything close to that?"

"Enjolras you haven’t said anything since we got the tickets, what am I supposed to think?"

"You were talking. I was trying not to interrupt. Combeferre says I have that habit and that it scares people off. I have questions, though I was going to save them for the end."

Once more, Grantaire is floored.

"But-"

"I feel pretty stupid, it’s true, but only because I’ve never spent any amount of time on art and never considered that I might be missing out. I’d still like to continue hearing what you have to say. It is nice to hear you talk about what interests you. I want to learn more about art."

+

Louvre dates don’t become a regular thing, because Grantaire isn’t enough of an idiot to make himself the absolute center of Enjolras’ attention for that amount of time again, but Enjolras does pop up in various places of his life with increasing frequency.

When Enjolras asks Grantaire to help with flyers for one of their ill-advised protests, Grantaire obliges, because he’s pretty sure he couldn’t deny Enjolras anything.

His therapist wouldn’t approve, but he hasn’t been to see his therapist in over a year after she told him he’d made enough headway for him to only come see her if he feels like he has to.

Nine PM and Thirteen Minutes on the dot becomes almost a daily thing. Grantaire no longer questions it. Instead, whenever he sees the telltale vermillion coat appear at the door of the bar, he takes a deep breath and wonders if he should pray for fortitude.

+

There is no way Enjolras picked all that new art knowledge up from Grantaire, he realizes a few months later when they are standing near the Pont Neuf, Grantaire talking about his upcoming commission and the various inspirations, when Enjolras makes a poignant and oddly fitting interjection about French Impressionism and its influences on society.

Grantaire stops in his tracks. Enjolras notices after three steps and turns around to frown at him.

"Not to be rude Apollo, trust me, I’m impressed, but _how_ do you know that?"

It isn’t often that Enjolras’ silence gives something away. Usually when he grows quiet it is like a mask slides onto his face, hence the frequent allusions to marble. This time he is quiet, eyes flicking to Grantaire’s face and then to the cobbled pavement. There is a sudden redness in his cheeks that isn’t just caused by the somewhat colder autumn winds whipping around the streets. "You know so much about art and I wanted to be able to not only understand but also to contribute to what you are saying."

Grantaire huffs a helpless smile, heart impaling itself on ribs that feel splintered for all the tightness in his chest. "Of course you did, Apollo."

"Was it important to you that you be the one to teach me?"

"No, I’m glad I inspired your research." Grantaire smiles, so damn in love and slowly dying because of it. This is a very fitting thing for Enjolras. He can’t stand not knowing something, cannot stand having to wait to find out everything on a subject he needs to know about urgently. He is inclined to ask Combeferre if he noticed Enjolras putting in any night shifts reading, but he isn’t that much of a masochist anymore. Better not to look for meaning that isn’t there.

+

He finds out at some point that Enjolras does not know how to cook and he is horrified. "How have you been surviving, Apollo? Please, I’m morbidly curious."

Enjolras taps out a rhythm on the bar, tense and feeling attacked. "Lots and lots of takeout?"

"Yeah, that won’t fly in the long run."

"My father can’t cook either. My mother wasn’t around. When would I have learned?"

"I mean…the internet is a thing you are aware of, yes?" Grantaire can’t believe this. Preposterous that Apollo himself should be so severely lacking in something like keeping himself fed. Currently Enjolras is taking annoyed sips, if such a thing were possible, of the ‘Virgin Cuba Libre’ he’d ordered with a borderline mischievous smile earlier. It made Grantaire grin, which in turn had made Enjolras look triumphant.

"Can _you_ cook?" Enjolras deflects.

"Can I cook, he asks," Grantaire snorts, throwing his hands up. "I’ve been keeping myself alive since I left home at sixteen. Of course I can cook."

"You can teach me then," Enjolras says. And, oh, that is not what Grantaire was expecting. Their stares hold, Grantaire’s heart beats loudly, and then Enjolras takes out the lime in his glass and sucks on it, as if the matter were settled. In a way it is, due to Grantaire’s previously demonstrated inability to deny the man.

"I could," Grantaire finally manages to speak again.

"Good," Enjolras actually smiles, "Combeferre and Courfeyrac are going clubbing Saturday night. You can come at around seven."

+

Knocking on the door to the apartment the triumvirate shares shouldn’t make him nervous, not after he’s been here multiple times. It’s just that he’s never been here alone with Enjolras. Even when he and Enjolras do things together, just the two of them, which has been a thing they do alarmingly often recently; it is never just the two of them. Such outings always happen in public, which might be the only reason Grantaire has made it through them without doing something ridiculously stupid. Like kissing those damn pouty lips.

Too late to leave now, Grantaire thinks as Enjolras opens the door with a breathless greeting.

By way of answer Grantaire holds up a bag containing groceries. Enjolras raises an eyebrow at the fabric. "Oh sue me, its reusable, I know. Just because I think the planet is doomed doesn’t mean I’m going to actively try and make turtles choke."

Enjolras positively beams at him and invites him inside.

"So what made you forego clubbing with C-squared tonight?" Grantaire fills the silence with conversation as he takes his shoes and jacket off.

"I don’t like when strangers press against me. Dancefloors usually include that by default," Enjolras shrugs.

"But you don’t like anyone touching you, and you go out for drinks with the group often enough," retorts Grantaire before he can stop himself. "You’re at the Corinth more often than Combeferre, and most days that includes clumsy attempts at flirting from strangers, which includes touching more often than it does not."

"You noticed that?"

"Which part – you not enjoying being touched? Or you being repeatedly hit on enough to warrant concern that you never reciprocate?"

"I do enjoy being touched," says Enjolras, pulling out the cutting board Grantaire had previously requested. "By the right people."

The right people includes and is limited to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, he thinks. Occasionally Enjolras lets Jehan braid and put flowers in his hair, for protests or whatever. He’s good about getting thumps on the back and shoulder from Bahorel. Grantaire suspects Enjolras must also enjoy the same treatment from Feuilly on occasion. But all in all, the list is very short.

"You’re just extremely picky about who catches your eye, then?"

"I can’t-" Enjolras has already started getting frustrated, before he takes a deep breath and starts again: "I almost never feel interest in someone before I know more about their beliefs."

"Oh?" Wonders Grantaire, as he almost chews through his lower lip, and chopping the vegetables before him way more finely than necessary to avoid having to look at Enjolras.

"I’m not made for casual hook-ups. I mean, I’m too intense, I guess," continues Enjolras to Grantaire’s never-ending despair. "Even if the person had caught my interest, I’d still prefer something serious over a one-night-and-done kind of arrangement."

Grantaire clears his throat, "And how would you know?"

"Well, I suppose I wouldn’t know for certain, I’ve never tried anything of the sort, but when fantasies develop they always include more intimate aspects to the relationship than just sex."

"Sexy fantasies, huh?"

"Are you making fun of me?"

Grantaire shakes his head vehemently and keeps his eyes far away from Enjolras and his stupidly handsome everything. The vegetables go into the pan, and that’s a nice, safe thing to stare at. The vegetables are fresh and astoundingly well-cut, but they have nothing on Enjolras. Nope. They're safe. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

There’s silence for a moment, Grantaire can almost hear Enjolras working his way towards saying something momentous. "Isn’t that something you’d like as well?"

The quiet tone takes Grantaire completely off-guard.

"Would I like something more intimate than-"

"A _casual fuck_ , yes." Enjolras clarifies.

Oh wow. That’s definitely going on the list of words he never thought he’d hear from Enjolras. Heaven help him, he’s so gone for that man. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he chides himself. "Grantaire?"

"Well, I mean, sure. Who doesn’t want someone to settle down with?"

"If that were what everyone wanted Combeferre and Courfeyrac would have gotten over themselves and accepted their fate already. It’s made me feel quite irregular for wanting what I want."

"I’m not saying I don’t agree, Apollo, because I do. Those two should, by all means, get over themselves, but I also understand the desire to see what else is out there."

He finally risks a glance towards Enjolras, who looks almost disappointed. Well, shit.

"Look," Grantaire sighs, "It’s not like there’s a line around the block waiting to get a piece of this, you know? I’m taking what I can get, and what I can get is never something intimate and long-term."

"I don’t see why not."

Ah, now there’s definitely heat in Grantaire’s cheeks. He thought he’d have gotten over that, and yet, under Enjolras’ heavy gaze, he starts sweating again. It is a hard thing, to resist the desire to squirm.

"You don’t see why not? Then, frankly, Apollo, I think you really ought to visit your optician."

"Why would you say that?" Enjolras frowns, crossing his arms.

"It’s just a saying, I’m sure your eyesight is perfe-"

"Why would you say you aren’t attractive?" Enjolras ruthlessly interrupts a ramble in the making.

Grantaire is speechless. Why wouldn’t he say it? He isn’t easy on the eyes, no matter how much he makes up for it with his boxing figure. There’s that nose, broken too many times not to be crooked in several places. There’s the acne scars from half a lifetime of picking at his skin. He will admit that in the years since he quit alcohol for good, his skin has regained some form of vibrancy, but it still is oily as fuck and the circles beneath his eyes just don’t ever leave. He could go on and on about it in his head, but Enjolras actually seems to be looking for an answer.

"Are you claiming this - " He gestures towards his face, " – Isn’t deterring?"

"It’s arresting, certainly," Enjolras shrugs, "You have a very striking face. Your eyes are intense." He says all of this with complete nonchalance, that even tone of mild disinterest.

Grantaire scoffs. 

"Arresting. That’s a euphemism if ever I heard one." He raises an accusing eyebrow, accompanied by a wooden spoon pointed towards Enjolras.

"But even if some people can’t appreciate what should be obvious, there’s plenty about you that’s attractive. How much do looks really matter?"

Oh god, take me now, Grantaire thinks.

"Of course you say looks don’t matter," he almost finds himself angry. "I’m not here looking for pity-compliments, Enjolras."

"I don’t _do_ pity-compliments," retorts Enjolras, rolling his eyes. "And what do you mean _of course_ I say looks don’t matter? They don’t! Beauty, however much one might possess, inevitably fades. It is temporary, always. It shouldn’t matter to you either."

"If looks don’t matter, what does?"

"Passion," says Enjolras, simply. "Dedication. Decency. Spirit. Common sense."

None of which Grantaire possesses an abundance of. Yikes, he gets it. Now it just feels like he is torturing himself. Welcome back, masochistic traits of mine, we missed you there, for a while.

+

Grantaire doesn’t expect Enjolras to speak up when he jokingly groans about having to get an extension on his taxes because he needs more time to understand how they are going to work now that he’s actually earned a fair amount of money the past year.

Courfeyrac gives him a sympathetic pat on the cheek, saying: "I fucking hate math too, man."

(To which Combeferre snorted and reminded Courfeyrac that he had a fucking 18 in his High School math final. "Study your ass off to distract yourself from depressive thoughts, it works," Courfeyrac had shrugged out that piece of advice as he had climbed onto Combeferre’s lap in the middle of the bar. Really, the bar stool isn’t made for two people, but Combeferre’s lap is admittedly very spacious – enough for the tiny Courfeyrac to fit onto it and stay comfortable while Combeferre’s arms wrap around him protectively. They’re like a pair of cats. Or Seahorses. The metaphor is very expansive, most pairs in the animal kingdom huddle close like those two do. It's only humans that usually keep such things behind closed doors.)

"I can help you with that, if you like," Enjolras says, not looking up from his drink.

Grantaire doesn’t want to be overbearing, but he really would benefit from someone looking over said taxes.

Which means Enjolras sees his apartment for the first time, after Grantaire’s shift ends and he trails him home. They sit on the couch together and sip tea Grantaire takes pains to make. It’s a pleasant evening and they don’t fight one bit, which means Grantaire replays their easy conversation throughout the entire night and doesn’t get a wink of sleep.

+

It shouldn’t surprise him when Enjolras finally gives in and joins Combeferre with study material at the Corinth. "I thought you were a library kind of guy," Grantaire arches his brow when Enjolras gladly accepts his experimental drink for the night.

"Already went there, wanted to be here," Enjolras’ sentences are chopped and short, their conversation that night is almost non-existent, but Grantaire is pathetic enough to just enjoy his presence immensely.

"Finals are coming up," Combeferre agrees, a mysterious twinkle in his eyes as he pushes his glasses back up his nose.

"Exactly," Enjolras nods, distractedly, "Wouldn’t have time to come here if I didn’t use it to study."

Grantaire ignores Combeferre and his stupidly expressive eyebrows. Fuck him; they had an unspoken pact of not mentioning how stupid Grantaire is over Enjolras. Said pact should include non-verbal mentions.

+

Enjolras brings him coffee to his studio, the morning after his last final for the semester. He knows it is the morning after because Grantaire may or may not have gotten the dates out of Enjolras at the Corinth before said blond went on his self-imposed bar hiatus to shut himself away and study with an appropriate amount of immersion he can’t get into at the bar. Combeferre may like the background noises and casual conversation while studying, Enjolras does not.

Really, Grantaire doesn’t know why Enjolras bothered studying at the bar for so long, it clearly wasn’t working. He kept allowing himself to be distracted into arguments Grantaire couldn’t resist provoking.

Grantaire opens the door in a green apron he might have swiped from that Starbucks job he had once, covered in plaster and various other substances by now.

Wordlessly, a carefully manicured hand, the only type of grooming that Enjolras really takes care to do on a perfunctory basis, nudges a thermos full of coffee towards him. That is to mean, he takes care of his hair as well, but more because he learned his lesson about curls early on than because he takes pride in looking overly presentable. Courfeyrac, drunk at the time, told Grantaire about a week-long class camping trip in eighth grade in which Enjolras neglected to comb his hair and ended up having to cut most of it off. There were pictures, even if it grew back quickly enough, and Grantaire has seen those pictures and conceded that the long hair really does look better.

"What are you doing here?"

"I would have called but you have not yet seen fit to give me your number. Is this a bad time?"

He is so, so confused.

"I’m not busy," Grantaire assures him when he looks vaguely concerned to be the unwelcome intruder, "I just don’t understand why you are here. Are you here? I’m not hallucinating?"

"I haven’t seen you in two weeks," Enjolras shrugs, taking a sip of his own coffee while still awkwardly shifting on his feet in Grantaire’s doorway until he gets his head back on right. How do these words explain anything? Yeah, Grantaire knows how long it has been. He has felt each day very keenly.

"Can I come in?" Enjolras probes, after Grantaire just stares at him for a few more moments. That only brings back so much clarity, but it is enough so that he steps sideways to allow him entry. Grantaire goes to the kitchen and pours half a truckload of sugar into his coffee. He isn’t sure his brain is functioning properly.

"With sugar?" Enjolras purses his lips, observing. For a second he thinks Enjolras is about to frown and talk about the inhumane conditions of the sugar industry, but they’ve had that conversation twice before, there’s no need to go for number three. Just in case though, as a pre-emptive measure, he turns the sugar enough for Enjolras to spot the Fairtrade label. Grantaire nods, remembering the question posed but still confused.

"Got it."

The implication that he will keep it in mind for next time weighs heavy on Grantaire’s heart. Enjolras is busy shaking his hair out of the bun he usually keeps it in, running his hands through the locks for good measure. A finger-comber with dedication, Enjolras decrees himself sometimes. Promptly, Grantaire adds that to the growing list in his head which reads: ‘Things I want to do in my life before I die’. It’s good to have goals, Jehan tells him often enough. He wonders if it is good to have goals he can never hope to achieve, and then wonders if it is fair to basically set himself up for failure. His therapist – can he even still call her that after not stopping by for so long – would say it isn’t fair. Grantaire would agree and go right ahead and do it anyway. 

"What are you working on?" Enjolras, now left in a white Henley which has every single button undone and his black scarf hanging haphazardly, peers around the room to find the artwork in progress.

"Uh," Grantaire points at the stature, "Commission. It’s supposed to be Dionysus and Adonis."

"It’s sexy," Enjolras nods at the practically finished work, eyes bestowing their approval. Grantaire dies a thousand little deaths. It isn’t because the two are naked, he thinks. Enjolras has often railed against the inherent view of nakedness as something sexual. What about this strikes a chord in Enjolras?

"They aren’t even touching," says Grantaire, choking just a little. Enjolras nods. "No, I know. But the suggestiveness of the near-touch means there is much more potential, more tension. Very erotically charged."

"Oh?"

Enjolras looks at him, sideways. "You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?"

Grantaire shakes his head, and Enjolras sighs a little mournfully. "Allow me to demonstrate."

He takes a step towards Grantaire, who, instinctively retreating, finds his body backed against the wall, Enjolras’ hands bracketing his head as he leans towards him. Grantaire is a little taller than him, but despite that and his broad, barrel-chested body, he feels unbearably small now as Enjolras stares into his eyes. What the fuck is happening?

 "I’m not touching you right now, am I?" Enjolras whispers. After a deep breath and Grantaire’s nod, he continues. "But I _could_ be."

God, doesn’t Grantaire know it.

He lifts one hand, as if about to cup Grantaire’s cheek, and then falls short. "That is what I mean about potential. The question of ‘what will my hands do to you’, do you understand? Will my touch be gentle? Will I stay chaste and merely caress where it is appropriate? Or will my hands wander and simply take what I want? You wouldn’t be able to tell definitely without a second stature that shows a progression of their pose, I certainly can’t tell by looking at your work, but it opens up different fantasies for whoever is beholding it."

Again with the fantasies, Jesus Christ, help him.

"And what fantasies does it invoke in your mind?" Grantaire asks, because what is another punch to the stomach when you are already bruised all over?

Enjolras doesn’t push away from him. For a second he thinks those bright blue eyes catch on his lips, but the moment passes immediately and they are back to staring at one another.

"Dionysus’ hand is hovering behind Adonis, torturously close to his ass but not quite there. I think I’d like that," Enjolras explains, then, because maybe he really does want to kill Grantaire, he elaborates, "The idea of being held close and guided towards release, being handled a little too roughly. Perhaps my partner would, in ecstasy, hold on a little too tightly, perhaps he would leave bruises. I think I would like that very much."

"Oh?" Grantaire’s voice is feeble and weak.

"Mhm," Enjolras hums pleasantly, probably imagining his fantasies playing out right now. "Won’t ever happen though. My skin overheats too easily and then I get nauseous, that would kill the mood quite reliably."

"You could just install a fan close to the bed to keep cool, or opt for a shower," Grantaire suggests.

It gives Enjolras pause. "I never thought of that."

+

Things go terribly wrong at their next protest. And by terrible, Grantaire means they could have been much worse but he is being dramatic about it.

He didn’t even want to be here, but Enjolras had glared at him at the Corinth the evening before, and, with all of Les Amis assembled, had called him a coward. It had been a hard truth pill to swallow, to be told that he didn't care because he could afford not to care. 

Grantaire had promptly gone home. He wasn’t working, after all, so he’d just turned on his heel and left. He fucking knows he is a coward, alright? If he wasn’t such a big coward, he would have gotten his act together, would have asked Enjolras out and then, upon being rejected, would have kept his distance and worked at getting over the man he’s been pining for ever since they first met. If he was brave he wouldn’t keep hanging onto every word and breath that man expels.

Instead, he’d slept not a wink, woken up to texts from everyone except Enjolras, downed a coffee pot worth of caffeine and made his way to the protest site.

Enjolras had turned around from where he’d been chatting with Courfeyrac, and gaped. Said gape had quickly been replaced by a smile. "You’re here," he’d said, eyes bright.

Grantaire had grunted in response and gone for a cigarette.

Half an hour later he takes a police baton to the face after pushing Enjolras out of the way. It doesn’t end pretty, in fact the violence only escalates. He’s fairly sure there’s blood gushing out from the back of his thigh.

That day is the first time Enjolras touches him, ever. His hands cradle Grantaire’s face as he stumbles around. One eye has swollen desperately shut and his mind is spinning. Nothing makes sense, especially not where Enjolras is concerned. The hands on his face, gentle in concern, don't make sense. Blue eyes welling up with tears don't make sense. He registers being dragged away somewhere.

Combeferre looks at his injuries, he thinks, before he finds himself in close proximity with Enjolras and Enjolras’ stupid golden curls again. The next time he consciously registers something, he is in a hospital corridor, stitched up and with ice on his face. An angry looking Enjolras glares at him.

"Why the fuck did you do that, hm?"

"Why the fuck did I do what?" Grantaire wonders how the words come out, because everything feels swollen and slurred and icky. There’s a hand holding his, he’s pretty sure.

"Don’t do that, Grantaire," Enjolras insists, hotly. "You keep deflecting. You won’t let me know you. I _want_ to know you."

"Maybe I don’t want you to know me so well, you ever thought of that?" Grantaire blurts out, stupidly.

He doesn’t remember much after that, only that there’s lots of screaming until the nurse tells them that they’re disturbing the other patients. Enjolras drops him off at home and looks unbearably sad. 

+

Three days later Enjolras stops by Grantaire’s apartment with apology-pancakes that aren’t terrible, by Enjolrasian standards. From a culinary aspect, he’s had plenty better, but Enjolras made them for him and that warms his heart and automatically catapults them to the number one spot of 'best pancakes he has ever had'. Grantaire remembers the afternoon he taught Enjolras how to make them.

They spend the day on Grantaire’s couch together, and Grantaire trades stories with Enjolras about their respective childhoods, even if his aren’t pretty at all and Enjolras’ are filled by the struggle of loving his father but hating what he stands for. It is an attempt at reconciliation, a way of letting Enjolras know that when he said he didn't want Enjolras to know him he'd been protecting himself, without actively admitting to it. Enjolras listens, makes both of them cashew-milk chocolate, and listens some more. (Everything has been largely vegan in his life ever since Les Amis became a fixed institution. He’s still getting used to it, but it isn’t so bad these days.)

"I’m sorry I yelled at you," Enjolras finally apologizes.

"You’re-" Grantaire cuts off mid-word, trying to process that. "Yeah?"

"I saw the baton get you and everything just stopped, you know? Then there was so much blood. God – R, I was so fucking worried."

"It’s okay," Grantaire murmurs.

"It really isn’t," Enjolras sighs. "I – Obviously you’re a grown man and you make your own decisions, but I wish you hadn’t put yourself in danger for me."

"You don’t owe me anything now, Apollo, if that is what you’re thinking. I won’t demand payment or something equally ludicrous."

"You didn’t even want to be there. I made you come. Can’t I feel bad about that?"

"No, not allowed, my deepest apologies, Apollo." Grantaire deadpans, finally able to change the subject. Enjolras cracks a tentative smile.

+

"Why exactly did you drag me here, again?" Grantaire wonders when they get out of the car at Chantilly, one hot summer’s day. It’s about a fifty kilometer drive from Paris, and while Grantaire was only too happy to oblige Enjolras when he asked, he had assumed they’d meet the others here. Alas, he was wrong, apparently, and he is starting to regret it. They’ve been spending too much time together, recently, in private. It’s going to his head and it isn’t good. Well, that is to say, it’s too good. Grantaire could get used to it, and hope is a fickle thing that usually destroys him in the end.

"This is where my father proposed to my mother," Enjolras says, as if that is supposed to make any sense to Grantaire.

"Gotta say, I didn’t expect you to whip out a ring, but I’m game," Grantaire teases, playing at swooning to disguise the fact that he is losing his shit internally.

"Baby steps," Enjolras smiles in a way Grantaire isn’t used to. It doesn’t seem like he is joking, and yet. He has to be, right?

They end up sitting half in the shade (Grantaire, because he burns easily), and half in the sun (Enjolras who, despite complaining about uncomfortably burning up when another human being touches him, loves the sunshine, apparently) beneath a tree, eating a lunch Enjolras managed to put together all by his lonesome. It’s mostly sandwiches, but Grantaire is still unreasonably proud that there is no avocado peel inside.

Soon Enjolras will be a fully functional being, and then he won’t have any need of Grantaire anymore.

It isn’t painful to open up to Enjolras, mostly because Grantaire has resigned himself to always being in love with him for the rest of his damned life, so what does it matter if he gives Enjolras even more power over him? The stories of his alcoholism, how it started, how often he tried to stop and failed, how helpless it made him feel, how it drove away half of his social circle and all of his family, they flow from his tongue as though someone pulled a cork out of the barrel he keeps everything bottled up in.

The grass next to him moves and Grantaire nearly jumps and shits his pants, but it is just Enjolras’ fingers, inching towards Grantaire’s. He freely admits to gaping at the spectacle that is Enjolras seeking out physical contact. With him. With Grantaire. What the actual fuck. 

"Okay?" Enjolras asks when Grantaire does not react for a long time. Enjolras’ fingers don’t seem to want to leave, so Grantaire nods and doesn’t quite know what to think of Enjolras’ relieved sigh. They’re barely touching, it doesn’t even count as hand-holding, but it’s enough to make Grantaire’s heart fucking bruise his ribcage.

+

Three weeks later Grantaire is walking along the Seine with Enjolras as he rants about Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

"Combeferre went on a date, for fuck’s sake, and Courfeyrac just sits at the kitchen counter and calmly eats his stupid sugary-cancer-cereal until he comes back. Then he jumps on him and they’re basically grinding against one another by the time Combeferre admits the date didn’t go well. Jeez, I wonder why. Could have something to do with the energizer bunny usually at home on your hips."

"I get that you’re frustrated, I do, but it’s their relationship," Grantaire says, "They’re just doing their own thing."

"Their thing is inconveniencing me." Enjolras pouts. Grantaire wants to pinch his cheek and kiss the pout away. Grantaire resists.

"What are you going to do, Apollo? Lock them in a room and throw condoms after them? If they want to do it, they will. Nothing you can do. You can’t send their signals for them, I’m pretty sure they are already receiving them loud and clear."

"Signals, huh?" Enjolras wonders, deeply in thought.

"Sometimes what the other person wants just isn’t clear. C-squared doesn’t have that issue, with their creepy hive mind."

"Perhaps," he says, looking at Grantaire intensely.   

Enjolras slides their hands together, this time fully committed to making it an actual touch, interlaced fingers and everything, despite the cold that is once more steadily creeping into Paris. "Tell me this is okay."

He nods, awkwardly, and Enjolras beams at him. "Good."

+

So, the hand holding becomes an occasional thing, and it is driving Grantaire absolutely mad. He can’t put a stop to it because it feels so good, and at the same time, he sort of has to put a stop to it or he will actually mount Enjolras.

As an effort to make the most out of the remaining summer holiday for those among Les Amis who are still students – namely everyone except Grantaire and Musichetta – they all pile into cars and head down to the coast of Southern France for a weekend. Enjolras spends the entire ride arguing with Grantaire in the backseat, while Combeferre and Courfeyrac sit up front and communicate silently. Somehow, Grantaire thinks though, that their conversation might actually be more meaningful. There’s been a new edge to their interaction in recent months, he thinks, like somehow they are holding back.

The house at the beach belongs to Marius’ grandfather, and they intend to fully take advantage of what luxuries their newest member can offer them, in the name of protest, since Marius assures them that his homophobic, conservative Grandfather would be very angry indeed to know he was hosting their little group. Turning over in his grave, apparently. 

Grantaire takes the couch in the living room once everyone else has picked their sleeping partners, and is surprised to find himself shaken awake in the middle of the night by Enjolras, whose eyes are wide and whose hair is messy in a way that tells Grantaire he’s been trying to sleep for a while and hasn’t succeeded.

"What can I do for you, Apollo?" Grantaire wonders, rubbing his eyes to try and force some alertness. "Something on your mind?"

"Plenty," Enjolras confirms his suspicion. "I’m about to head out."

"You do that," Grantaire manages, half-into the pillow.

"You should come with me, if you like," he says. Two minutes later they are standing by the water in their pajamas. It is way too late into the night and definitely too cold for them to be doing this. But, as always, he remains stupid for Enjolras.

"You want to go for a swim? Now?"

"It’s cold," Enjolras shrugs, and Grantaire realizes with some amount of horror that, for Enjolras, this actually seems to be an argument in favor of swimming.

"And I’m already freezing my balls off in this wind, why would I want them to fully retreat into my body?"

"Combeferre says they can’t actually – Oh, I see, hyperbole. Just, come on."

Grantaire levels him with a skeptical look.

"Please?" Enjolras pouts, pulling his hoodie over his head and his t-shirt right along with it. Suddenly Grantaire isn’t feeling so cold anymore. The long flannel pants come off as well and if he goes any further Grantaire’s head will actually explode. Enjolras treads into the water and lazily floats around a bit.

Ah, fuck it. What Enjolras wants, Enjolras gets. He’ll ask Joly for some Vitamin-C pills tomorrow and chug some herbal tea. He joins Enjolras in the water, floating next to him so that he doesn’t accidentally cut his feet on the rocks that pattern this beach. It’s a nice view, looking up at the stars from the water, floating along. In the darkness he can’t see Enjolras, but his hand reaches out and intertwines with Grantaire as they keep floating.

"So," Grantaire drags out the word, "My balls are pretty much gone. I think Combeferre was wrong."

Enjolras snorts, next to him and comes closer. The water splashes only a little.

"You’re fine."

"Why thank you, Apollo," Grantaire grins, unable to help being ridiculous.

"That’s not-" Enjolras doesn’t have to be illuminated for Grantaire to know he is rolling his eyes and choosing not to get into it.

"How long are we going to do this for?" Grantaire asks when time just seems to keep on passing. "Because I may be fine for now, but another ten minutes might actually do permanent damage."

Enjolras hums next to him, interlaces their hands tighter. "I’m overthinking."

" _You_?"

" _Me_ ," Enjolras splashes a little water in his direction when Grantaire’s tone is too overtly aghast. "I’m scared."

"Of what?"

"Going after what I want."

Silence.

"I probably shouldn’t be," Enjolras elaborates, "I mean – I’ve got no reason to be afraid. Either it goes well or it doesn’t and then I try and move on. But I’ve never felt like this before."

"You’ve never been scared?" Grantaire wonders, disbelieving.

"No," Enjolras shakes his head where it rests on the water. "I’ve been scared plenty of times. I mean I’ve never, uh, _felt things_ before."

Grantaire wants to leave. He really, really wants to leave. He’s gotten better being around Enjolras, things have gotten easier to tolerate, but he cannot float here and give Enjolras advice on his love life. He isn’t that good at repressing his tears. Though, then again, there's no place like saltwater to have this conversation. The tears will blend right in. 

"Oh?" He says, hoping his panic isn’t too obvious.

"It didn’t happen how I thought it would. There’s so many things on the checklist I made when I was younger that aren’t checked off, and I still can’t fucking fight what I feel. It’s driving me crazy, and I think I need to do something about it. But I don’t want to screw things up, and I might. I’m admittedly very terrible at such things. I might have read him entirely wrong. Combeferre and Courfeyrac tried hard not to laugh at me when I brought it up and failed a little bit. Hence, the fear I feel."

"What are you scared of?" Grantaire chokes out the question, tries not to get saltwater in his mouth even if drowning seems quite appealing right now.

"He might not want me the way I want him."

"And which way is that?"

"All in," Enjolras admits. "You know I’m intense, Grantaire. Would you want to deal with that?"

"Should you be asking me that?" Grantaire’s heart aches. There’s a splash of water and then Enjolras is floating upright, legs kicking beneath the surface. Grantaire mimics his movements. He can stand, meaning only a few feet closer to the shore Enjolras should also be able to stand.

"We can talk about it later, if it makes you uncomfortable, but I need to talk about it at some point," says Enjolras. Grantaire can’t make out his face in the dark, which is good, because that means Enjolras can’t make out his face and the absolute despair he feels either. There’s a little splutter and cough. "Can’t stand here," Enjolras explains as he grabs onto Grantaire’s shoulder. "Sorry."

"’s fine," Grantaire dismisses, pulling Enjolras closer just a little bit so he can offer more stability. And then Enjolras is coming even closer. "Can you stand?" he asks Grantaire, voice low.

"Yeah, like I said, ‘s fine, don’t worry ‘bout it."

"Good," says Enjolras. Then his legs swing around Grantaire’s hips and he nearly screams. In the darkness he opens his eyes and sees the outline of Enjolras’ face coming closer, feels hands run from his shoulder up to his neck, tilting his jaw.

A salty mouth finds his chewed up lips just above the surface of the water. It’s hesitant, over before Grantaire really processes it. "Was that okay?" Enjolras asks, still close to his face. He feels the breath on his face.

"Why the fuck did you do that?" Grantaire whispers, and promptly feels Enjolras tense in his arms.

"I thought-" Enjolras gulps, "I thought you’d want me to." He isn’t detangling himself from Grantaire.

"I don’t want pity kisses, Apollo, not even from you."

"They’re not," Enjolras insists, hands still firmly cradling Grantaire’s jaw. "I’ve wanted to kiss you ever since you taught me how to cook. You – You let me hold your hand, you were fine with that, I just thought-"

What?

Grantaire voices the singular thought running through his head.

"If I was wrong then I’m sorry." Enjolras sounds miserable. Things make a little more sense. Such as, the conversation they just had.

"I’ve been waiting for you for years," Grantaire blurts out, like an idiot. Enjolras sucks in a sharp breath.

"I’m sorry I didn’t notice."

"I didn’t fucking want you to notice," Grantaire shoots back. How the fuck did Enjolras not notice?

"Then why would you say-"

"Because you are so fucking out of my league, Enj, it’s insane. You’re you and – and you just said that I fit almost none of the criteria on whatever list you made for potential partners and – and," he trails off, because Enjolras is resting their foreheads against one another and silently chuckling.

"I made that list when I was like fifteen. Things change."

Silence.

"Can I kiss you again?" Enjolras wonders, "That’s the whole reason I wanted to have this conversation here, so we could make out without the whole overheating thing happening."

"You had to drag me into ice-cold water for that?"

"You’re the one who gave me the idea, Grantaire," Enjolras noses at Grantaire’s jaw, peppering kisses as he sees fit.

"Wha-?"

"When we looked at the stature you made that one time," Enjolras enlightens him. "Yes or no, Grantaire, can I kiss you again?"

"I mean, yeah-"

He does not get further than that, because Enjolras presses against him ruthlessly and covers his lips with abandon. Grantaire can’t say for sure, but he has a niggling suspicion that Enjolras has never kissed someone before. It’s clumsy, there is little finesse and no tongue at all, just open-mouthed presses and obscenely loud smacking sounds, almost like Enjolras wants to do everything at once with unbridled enthusiasm. It’s still good, because it’s Enjolras, but they have to slow down and take it from the top. Grantaire tears his lips away with some regret.

"Hey, slow down, tiger," Grantaire teases.

"Sorry, am I doing it wrong?"

"Well, there’s no wrong way to kiss, you’re alright," he grins when Enjolras lets out a sound of indignation.

"I don’t want to be just alright."

"Lucky for you I can teach you a thing or two about the art of kissing."

Enjolras allows himself to be taught for a while longer until they mutually decide that the water is a bit too cold to keep going.

+

After that weekend in the South of France things have changed between them. Enjolras comes home with him after his shifts or after meetings with Les Amis. They hold hands, they talk, and then when they are inside Enjolras will drag him onto the couch to make out.

Grantaire is admittedly scared of doing anything that will be too much for Enjolras, so he keeps his hands firmly on Enjolras’ hips and fights off the longing to explore. Enjolras, as always determined to be excellent at whatever new skill he learns, takes to kissing very well. Really, they practice so much at this point Grantaire thinks the student may have the master fully beat. When Enjolras nips at his lower lip and then runs his tongue along the seam, he groans.

It makes Enjolras pull away with a grin. He’s propped half on top of Grantaire on the couch. It’s a sunny afternoon in the middle of October, and it may be cold outside but Grantaire feels warm all over. His right hand has been complaining for all the extra work it has had to put in whenever Enjolras leaves, but that’s a cross he willingly bears.

"I still think I’m doing this wrong," Enjolras announces, trying to blow a stray curl out of his face. Grantaire tucks it behind his ear and receives a smile in response. He enjoys tender touches, Grantaire has learned. They have to be well-telegraphed, they aren’t supposed to surprise him or he _will_ flinch or tense up, but Grantaire can work with that.

"Not true," Grantaire insists, "In fact you’re doing very well."

"Then why aren’t you touching me?" Enjolras wonders, diving back in. Grantaire is too shocked to properly respond. Then Enjolras growls, frustrated, and reaches back to place one of Grantaire’s hands firmly on his ass. Holy shit.

"Touch me, R, come on," he pleads.

Grantaire squeezes and is rewarded with a rich moan that has Enjolras rocking forward into the side of his hip. Okay, so they’re doing this. "Like this?" Grantaire breathes into Enjolras’ mouth as he continues, fingers carefully running over Enjolras’ clothes, discovering and pressing close.

"Yes," Enjolras sighs happily, "Hold on." He sits upright enough to get his sweater over his head, and then unbuttons the shirt he was wearing beneath it. Shirtless Enjolras is not foreign to him, not entirely, but they’re making out and he is already desperately hard, tucked away beneath his belt. Grantaire stares.

"Like what you see?" Enjolras is genuinely asking, as if he isn’t the most perfect imitation of a Greek God. Grantaire shakes his head in disbelief and pulls him down for more kisses.

+

Bahorel takes absolute delight in pointing out his hickey at the next meeting, and Grantaire is overly aware how Enjolras stops mid-sentence in his discussion with Feuilly to listen to his response. Grantaire, meanwhile, scratches his neck and blushes. He hasn’t publically blushed in years, what the fuck. "Well, I mean, I really like the guy, he can mark me however he likes."

"Does R have a boyfriend?" Bossuet teases, trying to tickle his ribs. Grantaire pushes the invasive hand away half-heartedly.

"Don’t know if that’s what we’re calling it. We’re just spending some time together for now."

"Oh my god, you’re pink in the face," Marius points out, delighted. Grantaire looks at him, seated next to Enjolras and Feuilly, and doesn’t miss the hurt on Enjolras face. Fuck, what did he do?

"Grantaire, a word?" Enjolras approaches him after the meeting, hands clenched at his side.

He’s already readying himself for a fight as he follows his Apollo, wondering what exactly he did wrong, when he finds himself pressed against a wall and Enjolras’ lips on his, demanding and hard. Clever hands snake into his coat, carding through his chest hair, trying to gain access to more of him.

"What do you think we have been doing?"

"Honestly, man, I don’t know." Grantaire says in between kisses.

"Because I remember saying I was all-in, R, and if you don’t feel the same way-"

"I do, Enj, probably more so-"

"Then we’re boyfriends."

Well alright then.

+

He’s cooking dinner for Enjolras at his place when Combeferre and Courfeyrac come home together and swiftly excuse themselves to what is officially Combeferre’s room. Grantaire knows from Enjolras that they have spent a total of seventeen nights not sleeping in that room together. He keeps a list in his room. Grantaire has seen the white board.

Enjolras comes up behind him and wraps his arms around Grantaire’s middle, resting his cheek on Grantaire’s back. It’s a nice amount of pressure, and Grantaire covers one of Enjolras’ hands with his own.

"I want to give you a blowjob," Enjolras murmurs into the fabric of his shirt and Grantaire tenses so much that he spills a lot more pepper into the sauce than he intended. "Or not," Enjolras backtracks immediately.

"No," Grantaire hastens to correct, "No, I’d really like that. I just wasn’t sure if you’d be into that."

"Why wouldn’t I be?"

"It’s not something you talked about before, and we haven’t gone past making out. I assumed that’s all you were comfortable with."

"You thought I was asexual," Enjolras seemingly realizes.

"I considered it as an option in my mind, I wouldn’t put labels on you unless you told me you put them on yourself," Grantaire returns to cooking with a hand severely shaking.

"I have, uh, responsive desire, I think that’s how Combeferre put it," Enjolras explains.

Grantaire makes a noise inviting Enjolras to elaborate. "Well, you see, I may get aroused occasionally, but that’s not the same thing. I need some…preparation before the desire kicks in."

"I think I read that book on your shelf a few months ago."

"Combeferre gave it to me a few years back," Enjolras nods, evidently relieved to be taken seriously.

"Okay," Grantaire takes a deep breath, turns the stove on and puts the lid on the sauce. He faces Enjolras, walks him into the kitchen island so that he is backed onto it. His hands land on Enjolras’ thighs and he runs his hands up and down them, watches as Enjolras’ eyelashes flutter. "So, for some reason beyond my comprehension, I get you all hot and bothered. Right, so far?"

"You should already know why you get me hot and bothered, R, but yes," Enjolras manages to look disapproving even with his eyes closed.

Grantaire hums, "And then, once you’ve processed me as not only sexually relevant but something you want to be sexually relevant, I should touch you a bit, tease you until you want to do something about being hot and bothered?"

"Yes," Enjolras sighs, hands coming to fist in Grantaire’s hair and pulling him in to kiss him.

"Lucky for you, the thought of riling you up makes my spontaneous desire go off the charts," Grantaire whispers against Enjolras’ lips, stepping between his legs and pulling him closer so that his arms wrap around him fully. As long as there are clothes between them Enjolras does not overheat. "I can work with that, Enj," Grantaire nips at Enjolras’ lower lip as he pulls away, appreciating the little lean forward Enjolras does to try and keep the kisses going. "Thank you for telling me."

They don’t have dinner until very late, since they land in bed.

(And if, in his excitement, Enjolras accidentally grazes his teeth a little too hard and they have to stop, Grantaire is alright with cuddling for the rest of the night. When they try again a few days later, he gets it right and Grantaire goes a little crazy watching Enjolras work his mouth around him.)

+

This thing between them has been going on for almost half a year by the time Enjolras asks for more. It’s late, they’re in Enjolras’ bed, Grantaire is fairly certain he just heard Combeferre come next door, and Enjolras doesn’t seem to be aware of the shenanigans his roommates are getting up to. Instead, he is grinding against Grantaire’s equally naked body – the three fans around the bed make it possible – when he whispers into Grantaire’s ear: "I want you to fuck me."

Grantaire comes out of pure shock.

"Maybe not tonight, then," Enjolras teases. He runs a finger through the mess on his stomach and pops it into his mouth. Grantaire thinks he could happily die right now.

Two nights later, it’s a Saturday, and Enjolras shows up at Grantaire’s place willing and practically begging. Grantaire takes him to bed and they kiss until just after midnight. Contrary to what Enjolras may think, it’s a delight for Grantaire to spend lots of time getting him ready and he enjoys every second of it.

"I’ve got lube," Enjolras, no friend of subtlety, whispers.

"I’ve got a clean bill of health from a month ago. Your call on protection," Grantaire whispers in return.

"Can you look at me while you finger me?" Enjolras wants to know, a little timid but so very enthusiastic. Grantaire feels more than a little pressure to be the first one to do this to Enjolras. (He keenly remembers Enjolras abruptly leaving a conversation Combeferre initiated about the desire to do this to oneself while masturbating, so he suspects Enjolras might never have done this.) "You ever do this to yourself?" Grantaire asks anyway as his index finger circles around Enjolras’ sphincter.

"Felt stupid when I did it," Enjolras murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of Grantaire’s mouth. The air condition in the room is on full blast, Grantaire’s back is freezing, but the rest of him is heating up fast. "Feels better when you do it."

"You don’t know that," Grantaire points out, still circling and spreading Enjolras’ legs the way he wants them.

"Fantasized about it," Enjolras confesses, his eyes falling closed when Grantaire pops the finger in to the first knuckle. It’s barely anything, and the muscles around him only spasm for a second before they relax. He swirls it around inside. He’s going to take hours to do this, if it kills him.

"Yeah?" Grantaire, where previously he found mentions of Enjolras’ fantasies pure torture, delights in hearing about it now.

"Mhm," Enjolras moans as the finger slides in further. "You had me all spread out, and you were using your spit because we didn’t have any lube."

"Where were we, in this fantasy of yours?" Grantaire takes his teeth to Enjolras’ throat and pumps the finger in and out more, to increased noises of satisfaction from his partner.

"I don’t know – a cot? Looked very rustic," Enjolras tries to concentrate, only succeeds in licking his lips and whining sinfully. Grantaire keeps going with that finger until Enjolras demands a second one. He gets him adjusted to that before he starts scissoring the fingers.

It’s much later, after three fingers and endless work that Grantaire lines his cock up with Enjolras and presses inside. "Want you to look at me while you do," Enjolras demands, pawing at Grantaire’s chest and pulling him close. 

He stays, buried to the hilt, for a long time. Enjolras wiggles around, adjusts, they kiss. "You feel very big inside of me," says Enjolras, awed.

"You’re just tight, is what you are. You and your narrow hips," Grantaire nips at his collarbone and Enjolras clenches around him and both of them moan. After a few tentative rolls of his body, Grantaire feels Enjolras’ hands on his behind, demanding more. He is all too willing to oblige.

"Fuck, wait," Enjolras suddenly sounds confused, and Grantaire grinds to a halt, suddenly unreasonably scared.

"What is it?" He kisses Enjolras’ neck, can’t bear to look him in the eye yet. Kissing is too generous a term, it’s more like he runs his open mouth across the skin and breathes, too turned on to get his breathing under control.

"Why am I soft?" Enjolras curses, looking down at himself. Grantaire exhales a huff of laughter into the crook of his neck. He pulls back, pulls out of Enjolras.

"Happens all the time when you’re receiving, don’t worry," Grantaire kisses across Enjolras’ chest. "What’s important is if you’re still enjoying yourself."

Grantaire, far from flagging, is almost painfully hard, but it’s more important that Enjolras understands what is going on. His tongue reaches Enjolras hips and he bites at the hip bones. Said hips snap upwards, so fast it is most likely unintentional.

"I am enjoying it - very much."

"That’s good," Grantaire says, running his tongue along the lolling head of Enjolras’ cock. "We can get the little guy up again, Enj, but in all likelihood he’ll flag again if I get back inside of you."

"Can you blow me afterwards?" Enjolras wonders, already, pulling Grantaire back inside of him by the dick and wrapping his legs around Grantaire’s hips tightly.

"We can do whatever you want."

"Good," Enjolras pants, "Please fuck me now."

"Good manners," Grantaire snorts, but moves his hips as commanded. He ends up giving Enjolras a prostate orgasm, and fuck, if that doesn’t just make him the proudest man in the entire world. Feeling Enjolras’ entire body shudder around him is enough to make him lose it too, and he comes with a drawn out groan that almost drags his soul out of him. Thank god they’re at his place, and not doing this with C-squared next door. (Grantaire is fairly sure those are also very much taking advantage of the solitude, but he isn’t saying anything.)

"What the hell was that?" Enjolras asks, full of wonder, as he comes to rest on top of Grantaire’s sweaty, sweaty chest. ("I don’t mind," Enjolras has said, while blushing, about the amount of perspiration, "It’s cooling, that’s good. Also, I like how you smell.")

"If I had to put a name to it I would probably say I made you come by prostate stimulation."

"Can I do that to you?" Enjolras’ eyes are bright, eager, excited. It looks a bit like a puppy wagging its tail, not least because both of them are still panting from exertion.

"Never had one before. It’s fairly uncommon, I think."

"Oh," Enjolras looks disappointed.

"Doesn’t mean you can’t try," Grantaire teases.

+

After they’ve been doing their thing for almost nine months, the inevitable fallout comes because Grantaire is stupid and addresses the fact that none of their friends know.

"Combeferre and Courfeyrac aren’t entirely oblivious when it comes to people that aren’t them," Enjolras dismisses, annoyed because Grantaire brought this up before coffee time, "They know what’s going on."

"They might have _guessed_ , but you not confirming it for them makes me feel like a kept man instead of a boyfriend."

" _I’m_ not keeping you here, R." Because of course that’s what Enjolras focuses on. "If this isn’t what you want, you’re free to go at all times."

His voice sounds frosty, colder than it has in months, and Grantaire flees. He ends up at Marius’ place, listening to Marius despair over being in love for the first time with a girl he saw for three seconds.

It’s a better evening than it could have been. Marius’ pain effectively distracts him from his own. His phone is turned off and he knows it isn’t fair to Enjolras for him not to answer, but the words are stuck in his heart like seven or eight vicious thorns. _You’re free to go at all times_.

Oh, right, rationally Grantaire knows that Enjolras is shit at being romantic. He’s known that for years. He also knows that Enjolras did not mean the words the way Grantaire interpreted them. And yet, they hurt. They lodge inside of him. They make Grantaire feel like it’ll always be this way, him more invested than Enjolras.

Maybe it’s for the best if they put a stop to it. That’s better than hoping Enjolras won’t be ashamed of him someday, isn’t it? There are limits to what he has to put himself through. 

+

He meets Éponine when she has her first shift at the Corinth the next Friday, with him behind the bar. It’s a busy day, Les Amis are all assembled except for Enjolras, most likely at the library. If Grantaire checked his phone he might know more, but he can’t do that right now. Grantaire recognizes the look on her face when Marius walks in all too well. She’s a stunning girl, Éponine, with long, beautiful curls and an acne-free complexion Grantaire would absolutely kill for, but Marius, since that one evening eating Ben&Jerry’s together, has not stopped talking about his mystery girl, and so Grantaire quietly lets Éponine know what is going on.

"Thanks, man," she claps a hesitant hand on his shoulder, "That would have been a shit show."

"It’s okay if it still is," Grantaire retorts, "Lord knows I’m the king of Shits Shows."

Speaking of, Enjolras uses that moment at Nine PM and Thirteen Minutes to walk into the Corinth, finding his eye immediately and, like a modern-day Moses, parting the sea of people standing in his path.

"R," he says, "Hello." His heart hurts. Enjolras is so, so beautiful, even on a day he clearly hasn’t slept well.

"What can I get you, Enjolras?"

"Virgin Cuba Libre?" His voice is hopeful, so careful. Grantaire doesn’t miss the clenched fists at his sides, an obvious tell for when Enjolras is nervous or uncertain. Next to him, Éponine snorts. "Clever," she says, then sets off to make one.

"You haven’t been answering your phone," Enjolras licks his lips. "I would say you’re avoiding me in particular, but Jehan told me they can’t get ahold of you either. I’m concerned that you’re freezing out all of our friends just because you’re running away from me."

Honestly, it makes Grantaire mad.

"I’m not fucking running away from you, Enj," he rolls his eyes, trying to turn away. Enjolras reaches across the bar for his hand, desperately. Grantaire doesn’t have the heart to turn it away. To reject Enjolras’ touch means he would beat himself up for it afterwards.

"I’m not ashamed of you, if that’s what you want to hear."

"Aren’t you?" Grantaire wonders, bitterly, "I know I’d be. It’s fine, Enj, you don’t need to explain why you didn’t want to make what we had public."

"Had?" Enjolras wonders, looking like he might cry. His lip honest to god quivers. "Past tense?"

Grantaire is about to retort, but Éponine has finished the drink and another customer is calling for him. He’s about to turn away.

"R, please, can we at least talk about this? Can you give me a chance to convince you not to call this off?"

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Grantaire thinks, closing his eyes tightly, but nodding. Enjolras takes a deep breath, releases his hand, and makes his way over to where the rest of their friends are sitting.

"And just who was that?" Éponine wonders, one eyebrow cocked.

"Shit show," Grantaire frowns, pointing towards his chest, "Like I said. Tickets are available online or at the venue if you want to see more."

+

Enjolras is waiting for him when he walks out of the back door of the Corinth.

"I thought you might have left," Grantaire says by way of greeting. Enjolras looks up, lip chewed bloody, eyes red.

"I’m not ashamed of you, R," he says, voice more of a sob than anything steady. Grantaire, sighing, steps closer and offers Enjolras his arms. The blond folds into them, breathing shallowly in a way Grantaire knows is supposed to stop tears from coming out. It doesn’t really work; he feels them soak his shirt. Enjolras mumbles something against his skin, lips hot and wet.

"What was that?" Grantaire wonders, combing his fingers through Enjolras’ curls.

"I said I was stupid that I didn’t ask you what you wanted."

"Does it matter, when you didn’t want the same?"

"I’m not the only person in this relationship," Enjolras sniffles, "That isn’t how it’s supposed to work."

Grantaire doesn’t know what to say to that.

"We can tell them."

"You don’t want them to know, not really," Grantaire’s voice is low. He tries to keep the accusations out of his voice. "The truth of the matter is that I’m very insecure about us, Enj. I wake up, and if you’re not next to me, it always makes me doubt if I’ve imagined all the things we’ve done together. I wouldn’t put it past my imagination. I have no proof that this is real. None of our friends know, we haven’t taken a single picture together even though, yes, I know, I’m the one that objected that one time because I was having a shit body image day, we haven’t – It’s stupid, but I don’t even have a toothbrush at your place."

"None of those things matter," Enjolras frowns. And, wow, ouch. Some of the pain must show on Grantaire’s face, because Enjolras backtracks. "They don’t matter to me, is what I mean. But – the toothbrush thing, we can do that. I don’t mind."

"This isn’t fixable with a damn toothbrush, Apollo." Grantaire can’t help it, he rolls his eyes.

"Then tell me what else I can do, Grantaire," Enjolras’ voice rises. "I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose what we have. But I’m not ready for our friends to ridicule me."

"Because it’s so ridiculous that you’d stoop to be seen with me?" Grantaire’s haunches go up.

"No, because they’ve been teasing me relentlessly ever since they found out that I’ve never…done anything before, and once they find out that’s no longer the case, it’ll give them more material-"

"Oh my god," Grantaire groans, "I can’t believe this. You’re keeping this secret because you don’t want to be teased about having sex? That’s what this is about?"

Enjolras flushes, stares at his snow-covered boots, says nothing. Grantaire has quite enough.

"This is bullshit," Grantaire announces, to no one in particular. He might as well be addressing the air – so much has Enjolras shut down in communicating. "You’re a grown man, Enjolras. You enjoy sex, there’s nothing wrong with that. But if you can’t take them ribbing you about it a little, maybe you _shouldn’t_ be having sex yet."

Grantaire leaves. Enjolras, still in thought, does not stop him. Maybe he doesn’t even notice.

+

He spends Christmas with Les Amis and brings Éponine along, not as his date but as moral support. He gets along great with her, and she’s the only one in their friend group who isn’t also friends with Enjolras yet.

Enjolras spends most of the night staring at him, but he doesn’t give the man an opening to approach him for conversation. He’d take Marius’ ridiculous pining over Enjolras implying he’s embarrassed about having sex with him any day.

Éponine gets along great with Marius, and Grantaire thinks there might be a little bit of the initial love struck look in her, but it’s waning. That’s good, he thinks. Grantaire is roped into cleaning up by a scandalously drunk Courfeyrac in the kitchen.

"Ferre looks so good tonight, doesn’t he?" Courfeyrac whispers into Grantaire’s sweater, voice slurry. Grantaire looks at Combeferre, who does, in fact, look good. Grantaire has never seen him look anything less than well put together though, and he has seen Combeferre come home from a 48 hour shift at the hospital during nights spent at this apartment. In bed with Enjolras. Fuck, he misses him. "Yes," Grantaire agrees, rubbing Courfeyrac’s back. "I love him so much, R," Courfeyrac whines.

"Have you told him?" Grantaire wonders what they’ve been doing. He’s heard them in their room at night, while Enjolras slept blissfully on next to them.

"Of course," Courfeyrac insists, drunkenly outraged, "Every day since we were four."

"Alright then, buddy," Grantaire resumes the backrub.

"I just-" Courfeyrac exhales loudly, "I just don’t know what the future holds, you know?"

"I know that feeling," Grantaire agrees, vaguely. He doesn’t look at Enjolras, he doesn’t. Fuck, he totally does, for a second. 

"I could tell him: Hey, Ferre, let’s just call it now, yeah? We both know we don’t want anyone else. But then, what if that changes? Sometimes I’m so scared, even though I know I have no reason to be. My stupid depressed brain tells me I should be, and then I am."

"It hasn’t changed since you were four," Grantaire points out, a little over this conversation because he’s quite sure Courfeyrac is drooling on him, but he’s a good friend. "Combeferre obviously feels the same. He’s looking very concerned right now, in a hot kind of way."

Courfeyrac whines against his chest, a tortured sound. Somehow, maybe through the hive mind these two claim to have, Combeferre must hear it, because he comes over. Courfeyrac burrows into Grantaire’s chest when he hears.

"Darling?" Combeferre presses a kiss to Courfeyrac’s curls, careful, tender, sweet. "Are you perhaps a little too drunk?"

"I love you so fucking much, Henri," Courfeyrac announces into Grantaire’s chest. Grantaire adores how Combeferre’s entire face relaxes into a smile.

"I love you too, Felix," Ferre whispers, gentling Courfeyrac out of Grantaire’s arms. The man goes willingly, climbing onto Combeferre like a particularly spry panda onto a bamboo stalk. "Let’s go to bed, yeah?"

It occurs to Grantaire by the way that Combeferre staggers that the man might also be deep in his cups, but the bedroom door is already closed behind them. He cleans up some more, and then leaves, despite the feeling of blue eyes on him.

+

The customer at the bar isn’t shabby looking, Grantaire thinks, but he is being overtly flirtatious and Grantaire has uncomfortable feelings about that, not least of all because Enjolras is sitting at a booth with Joly and Bossuet, technically engaged in conversation but glaring at Grantaire like he used to, before this whole thing ever happened and then ended.

He tries to resign himself to it.

That’s always the thing about hope, isn’t it? He spent years telling himself not to have it, and then when Enjolras kissed him it burst into life like a garden in spring anyway. And now, to complete the terribly cheesy metaphor his head provides, winter has come and his garden has withered. He’s back to being frozen out. Back where he belongs.

Hence, the patron and his flirtiness, which he doesn’t dismiss out of hand. Grantaire is well aware he won’t be going home with him. He can’t. It’s too soon. Anytime would be too soon. He might have to take up orders. Enjolras has ruined him, thoroughly, with his wicked ways and emotional unavailability.

So, Enjolras glares. Grantaire tears his eyes away and focuses on the customer, making small talk as he mixes the Long Island Iced Tea. "Make it strong," the guy had winked.

"How strong?"

"Well," the guy grins, "Strong enough to feel it, but not strong enough that consent would be an issue."

Holy shit, that’s direct. Somehow, he doesn’t know how, Enjolras must have heard it, because he gets up and stalks right up to the bar, now glaring from close-by. Grantaire finishes preparing the drink, declines the guy’s well-meant offer of a sip of his own creation with only mild panic, and turns around to dry off some glasses before he faces Enjolras.

The amount of emotion in those terrible blue eyes is frankly alarming. Grantaire raises his eyebrows at Enjolras, not trusting his voice to speak. The guy is still talking, but Grantaire can’t hear anything. Quick as ever, Enjolras reaches across the bar and gets a hand into Grantaire’s shirt. He finds himself yanked forward and admittedly going willingly, as Enjolras leans across the bar and kisses him with delicious expertise.

It’s… a statement, to say the very least, because Grantaire is very much aware that the entirety of their friends is assembled in the bar at the moment. Combeferre, in fact, is sitting not two chairs away from them, but Grantaire doesn’t risk a glance to check if he is watching. Instead his eyes flutter closed on a moan and he parts his lips, because Enjolras’ tongue wants access and he readily grants it.

Fuck, he missed this.

Enjolras pulls away, leaving him breathless. When Grantaire glances to the side, the Long Island Iced Tea is gone, in its place a hefty sum he pockets with a little bit of guilt.

"Well, that’s surprising," Grantaire chokes out when his voice returns to him in increments.

"You were right, Grantaire," Enjolras tells him in a low voice. "I was waiting for the right moment to make things official. You didn’t have to force my hand."

"How the fuck was I forcing your hand?" Grantaire demands to know, trying to lean away and cross his arms, but Enjolras keeps him there, their foreheads connected. One hand is tight on the back of Grantaire’s neck, the other even tighter on the wood of the bar.  

"That guy."

"You can’t possibly think anyone could ever hold a candle to you?"

"You flirted back," Enjolras insists, petulant. There is an eye roll, and there are witnesses who will tease him about that eye roll later, if Combeferre’s snort from two seats away is anything to go by.

"You don’t understand," he says eventually, "Look at yourself in the mirror, Enjolras. And, I know – I know you don’t care about looks; I’ve heard that speech more than I can count. But it’s just nice to hear it sometimes. It’s nice to know that there are some people who wouldn’t say no to me on a purely physical basis."

"Even if that isn’t what I want, you understand?" Grantaire lowers his voice for that last part, just for Enjolras’ ears. Enjolras chews on his thumb, which is, on Courfeyrac’s official scale of Enjolras’ tells, worse than the clenched fists.

He leans forward, bestowing a gentle breath of a kiss to Grantaire’s lips.

"I’ll try to understand. Give me some time to work it through in my head, yeah?"

"Thanks, Apollo." Grantaire feels relief.

+

Things are more careful after that, and also better. Enjolras takes him on dates, they work their way back to physical intimacy and Enjolras deals with Bahorel’s ribbing by glaring at him but saying nothing. He’s surprisingly good at that when he wants to be.

Grantaire has trouble believing that this is really what Enjolras wants, but he doesn’t seem to want to be anywhere else. Somedays Enjolras spends the entire day studying in Grantaire’s bed while Grantaire is out running errands, stretching out on the covers like they belong to him.

("What’s mine is yours, isn’t that how it goes?" Enjolras will tease, showing teeth when Grantaire brings it up at some point. "Are we at that stage, Apollo?" "We could be, if you wanted to." Enjolras will answer, not understanding that Grantaire is teasing and promptly giving him half a heart attack.)

On one such days Grantaire comes home to a naked version of this cat-like Enjolras, on the phone with someone, maybe a professor, his feet in the air. Ah shit, Grantaire thinks, it is possible to fall even more in love with this guy.

Enjolras hangs up quickly and pulls Grantaire on top of him with needy little noises that go right into Grantaire’s pants.

"Can I fuck you?" Enjolras whispers into his ear when he’s working on Grantaire’s throat, bringing hickeys to the surface like they’re going out of style.

"Been a while," Grantaire shrugs, "Since anyone’s been inside, you see? Be gentle."

Enjolras is, though the eagerness makes him impatient. And yet there is discipline in him, even when his hips threaten to stutter when he finally slides home. "Oh, fuck, that’s good."

"You like this better than being fucked?" Grantaire wonders, searching for purchase in the sheets and regretting the decision to indulge Enjolras and buy silken ones, because they are slippery and he flops about a little helplessly. Enjolras shakes his head.

"Both good," Enjolras pants, "This is harder to control. If I move I’m done."

"This time around, maybe," Grantaire laughs, already far along himself. "Stamina builds up. Fucking chase that orgasm, baby, you can finish me off afterwards if you like."

"Want to make you see stars," Enjolras decides as he begins thrusting, closing his eyes and biting down on his lip hard enough to bleed as he tries to stave off the beginnings of an imminent orgasm.

"Yeah?" Grantaire moans and then gasps when Enjolras grabs the backs of his thighs and lifts them up so that Grantaire’s ankles land on his shoulders. The newer angle is deeper, he hasn’t felt that in a long time, and it draws noises out of him that would certainly embarrass him with someone else pulling them from his lips. But it’s fine, Enjolras seems to delight in hearing them. He can get over his reservation.

"Louder," Enjolras demands, pulling out and sliding back home hard. Grantaire obliges. He’s past caring. Enjolras wants this, reasoning be damned. He can have whatever he wants.

"God, R, I love you so much," Enjolras sobs as his hips twitch forward rapidly. Grantaire feels the warmth of his release inside of him and feels strangely detached at the same time. The words don’t make sense.

Enjolras blows him to his own end, going down on his dick like a starving man, but Grantaire feels disconnected.

Love? That can’t be right. Enjolras only notices once his afterglow has worn off. "Are you upset I said it?"

"How could I be upset?" Grantaire answers.

"You don’t look happy. I didn’t plan on saying it the first time during sex, but it slipped out I guess."

"I didn’t think you were the type to say it at all," Grantaire deflects, playing with Enjolras’ hair. Enjolras turns away for a second to turn the fan up higher, then snuggles onto Grantaire’s chest.

"I thought you might like to hear it."

"Not if you think you _have_ to say it, Enj-"

"No one _has_ to say anything. I know how I feel. I _hope_ you know how I feel. I like saying it. Is that wrong? Should I stop?"

"I love you too, you know," Grantaire retorts instead, tired and worn out by their exercise. "Always have. Always will."

"Mmh, tell me more," Enjolras whispers, halfway asleep but grinning in that cat got the cream kind of way. Grantaire does, he whispers beautiful words that would put Jehan to shame until he succumbs to Morpheus as well.

+

Enjolras stops in the door to his apartment like someone turned him to stone. Grantaire, still rambling, walks into his back and recoils, staggering. One of Enjolras’ hands reaches behind and steadies him.

On the kitchen counter, a shirtless Courfeyrac has his hands alternately on Combeferre’s neck and ass, pulling him close. Combeferre, glasses askance and hair a total mess, is kissing back hungrily, pulling Courfeyrac’s thighs apart.

Enjolras clears his throat, pointedly, and those two stop kissing but don’t draw apart. Their eyes are hazy with lust, evidence that this isn’t a first-time-thing. (Not that Grantaire doesn’t already have ample evidence, collected by way of squeaking bed springs in the middle of the night and silenced pleas of ‘grip me harder, Ferre’ or ‘Fuck, Courf, that’s so good.’)

They disappear to continue their scheme in the bedroom and Enjolras seems genuinely surprised that those two apparently got their act together a long time ago.

"You _knew_?" He turns on Grantaire, who has stolen some of the coffee Courfeyrac and Combeferre must have originally made for themselves.

"I had suspicions. They didn’t feel like confirming what I knew until now. Wasn’t any of my business, you know?"

"Oh, I see," Enjolras crosses his arms. "This is you reminding me that I did the exact same thing of not telling people for a long time."

"Gosh, Enj, you’re so smart, you really are," R grins, taking the place Courfeyrac previously occupied on the counter.

**Author's Note:**

> So, you made it to the end. Oh wow. If you liked it, or even if you didn't, I'd love some form of feedback. 
> 
> Also, I'm thinking of making a part 3 of this about the Joly-Bossuet-Musichetta Triad which isn't actually mentioned in this but definitely exists, if anyone would be interested in reading that, please do let me know.


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